Chapter 1, Introductions

There are days when I truly want to disown my parents. The first time was when I realized that Honesty wasn't a normal name. The most recent was when my mother announced she'd invited her best friend from college to stay at our house, along with her three kids. Seriously, what was she thinking? Could she really be that stupid? I know my father isn't; he's a professor at the local college. But the fact remains that he agreed to the plan. For him, the only possible explanation is temporary insanity.

It isn't that I dislike Aunt Marcy, she's great, but our house is too small for the people who already live here. There are only three bedrooms! Dad, Mom, Livia, the baby, and I are already stepping on each other's toes. Adding Aunt Marcy, her son Sam, her son Isaac, and her daughter Magdalen will not help the situation, although I'm sure—knowing Aunt Marcy—that her children are just as awesome as she is.

Oh, well. What can I do? Mom already told Aunt Marcy she could come—I heard them squealing on the phone about how much fun it was going to be, sounding like a couple of schoolgirls—so I might as well buck up and prepare for some close quarters. It's not likely to last more than a couple of months anyway. Dad will get tired of waiting for the bathroom soon enough. But, in the meantime, where the hell are we all going to sleep?

- - -

“You've got to be bloody kidding me,” Livia said. I snorted into my cheerios: Livia's only nine. She acts like she's 13, and it cracks me up.

Mom gave her signature exasperated-yet-patient-and-loving sigh. She does that a lot. “No, Livia Marie, I am not kidding. And don't say 'bloody' when you mean it like a swear word. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to share a room.”

I started to chuckle, and she gave me a dirty look. “I'm sorry, Liv, but the look on your face was priceless,” I explained, still laughing. The last time Mom and Dad tried to make Livia share a room with anyone was when the baby was born. First they tried to put the crib in her room, but being a newborn he cried all the time, so they gave him his own room and put us together. Liv had a six-hour-long crying spree. When that didn't work, she launched a campaign against parent abuse at her school. She got an A on her Social Sciences project, although her teacher raised an eyebrow at reading “forcing children to share rooms” in the list of abusive behavior. Mom and Dad thought it was cute, so they caved and moved the crib into their room, giving us our separate rooms back. Georgie's only six months old now, so I wouldn't have thought they'd forget my little sister's diva-like tendencies so quickly.

“So, Liv and I share a room. You, Dad, and Georgie stay where you are. That leaves Aunt Marcy and two kids with one bedroom and the basement to share, unless we decide to heat the garage.” Mom hesitated. “What?”

“You and Liv won't be sharing a room. You'll have your own space, don't worry.” Her voice trailed off a bit at the end, which I found odd.

“Okay, that's great, but now that leaves Aunt Marcy and presumably her two sons with only the basement, if Liv's sharing with the six-year-old.”

“Magdalen, yes. Except, sweetheart, we've decided Aunt Marcy needs to have your room. She's feeling pretty stressed right now, and she'll need a place of her own, where she can relax. Livia and Maggie will share Livia's room. You, Samuel, and Isaac will divide up the basement. We'll put up curtains, so it'll be just like having your own room, okay? It'll be lovely. We'll spend the rest of the time until they get here finishing the basement, putting sheetrock on the walls and painting and getting everything ready. It'll be just perfect...”

She kept talking, but I couldn't really hear her any more. Give up my room. Not share it, give it up. My sunny, cheerful room with the scratched hardwood floors, the daisies I painted on the windowsill, the maple tree I could climb into to read or just be alone. Give it all up. No more sunset mural my godmother had made on my closet doors. No more personal space, just a cold basement that I'd have to share with two boys. I'd have to give it all up.

“Honesty? Honesty?” my mother was saying. My name. I focused on my name. I still felt too dizzy, too out of touch to speak, so I nodded. “I appreciate how mature you're being, sweetheart. It really means a lot to your father and me.”

“But, Mom, isn't there another way?” My voice sounded strange, even to me. I didn't recognize it. My voice never has that pleading tone.

She sighed again and looked at me. I could tell she really didn't like the idea any better than I did. Having her seventeen-year-old daughter share the unheated basement with two boys? “I'm sorry, Honesty.”

I nodded. She and Dad would've talked it over long before she discussed it with Liv and me. They would have tried to find another way. I knew she was sorry. She's always sorry about something.